


enough words to fill a page

by windupbirdgirl



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Gen, Librarian AU, M/M, Phichit is an Amazing Friend, sort of, viktor is enamoured, yuuri is incredibly dense and breaks hearts by accident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 22:22:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9682610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windupbirdgirl/pseuds/windupbirdgirl
Summary: “I’m Viktor, by the way.” Viktor informs the cute librarian in front of him, whose name-tag reads “Yuuri” in scrawled, all-capital letters.“Viktor?” Yuuri’s expression is confused. “Did you want to sign up for a premium card?”(Phichit has come to understand that his best friend is highly self-unaware.)





	

It’s nearly closing time; the clock tower in the square opposite the public library reads 5 o’clock. Katsuki Yuuri has not realised this.

There are two separate stacks of books on the library’s help desk. On the right, textbooks which adhere strictly to Yuuri’s Russian history course. To his left, additional material written by academics, which he uses to expand ideas, and to help him introduce a sense of debate into his reports.

“Yuuri.” Phichit leans over the desk, depositing a stack of returned DVDs onto the trolley. “No one can see you when you bend beneath the counter like that.”

“There’s barely anyone here,” Yuuri frowns, tapping his pen against his cheek. He’s right, Phichit knows; the library was deserted, save for a few students finishing off some work, or the old man flicking through gardening magazines on the threadbare sofa.  “And I never get asked anything, anyway.”

His best friend, Phichit has come to understand, is highly self-unaware. It’s brought him something of a reputation. More than once, Phichit has watched people hurrying away from Yuuri’s desk, flushing furiously, their hearts having been broken by Yuuri’s no-nonsense attitude and insistent professionalism. It makes Phichit’s 3-hour shifts far more entertaining.

“You won’t be able to list this as volunteer work on your CV unless you actually do some work, Yuuri.”

Yuuri considers this. He’s at the crossroads for a full two minutes before the guilt overpowers him, and his books, essay, and extensive notes are returned to the long-suffering rucksack, their rightful place.

“Good choice.” Phichit says, pleased, and pats him on the head.

Someone rings the bell. Yuuri spins around in his chair, Phichit glances upwards.

“Excuse me,” A customer leans against the desk, holding up a scrap of paper, “Do you have this book here?”

The guy is undeniably another student, wearing the familiar university lanyard and a harried expression, but still manages to look like someone from the front cover of a magazine. He screams expensive; styled hair, a definitely-not-faux leather satchel, a hoodie stamped (rather ostentatiously, Phichit thinks), with a big fat Gucci logo. Phichit has to repress a whistle. Yuuri, on the other hand-

\- adjusts his glasses and wheels himself, in a no-nonsense and professional manner, to the other side of the desk in his office chair. Phichit throws another glance to the customer, waiting for the inevitable.

“Hi, sorry, I’ll check the system.” Yuuri takes the slip of paper straight from the customer’s hand, offering him a small smile from under his eyelashes. Phichit adjusts his position, propping his head in his hand to watch.

Yuuri types up the title, biting his lower lip in concentration, the clacking of the keyboard comfortingly loud. Phichit knows they stock the book as soon as Yuuri’s eyes light up, a perfect reflection of the ‘Happy to Help’ badge pinned to his hoodie.

“We have all three editions,” Yuuri tells the man, satisfied, then looks at Phichit. “Phichit, could you—?”

“Of course! Let me see the title.”

As Phichit walks away to the furthest corners of the non-fiction section to retrieve the book, he can’t resist pausing, turning back to Yuuri’s help desk.

The man is still there, asking Yuuri about something. Yuuri brushes his fringe out of his glasses, tucking the growing strands behind his ear unconsciously – Phichit feels a brief pang of pity for Attractive Customer number 207.

Then Yuuri catches Phichit’s eye over the desk.

Phichit winks at him. Yuuri’s face turns into the dictionary-definition of bewildered.

(His best friend, Phichit has come to understand, is highly self-unaware.)

* * *

“I’m Viktor, by the way.” Viktor informs the cute librarian in front of him, whose nametag reads “Yuuri” in scrawled, all-caps letters.

“Viktor?” Yuuri’s expression is confused. “Did you want to sign up for a premium card?”

 

* * *

The dingy university cafeteria is busy, swarms of students queuing for chips and pizza, the tall windows fogged over with condensation. Viktor wrinkles his nose.

“So he didn’t respond to you...at all?” Chris dips a chip into the cardboard sauce-cup, circling it until it’s smothered in ketchup. Viktor has to tear his eyes from the motion, trying to focus on the question blearily.

“Every time I tried to ask him something, he’d act as if I was talking about the library.”

Chris gave a low whistle. “Maybe he just wasn’t interested? Only you would try to hit on people at the library, of all places. You probably looked like a creep."

Viktor couldn’t think of a way to respond to that. So he said nothing as he prodded his pizza slice miserably.

“Look on the bright side! At least they carried the revision guide you wanted. Are you going to eat that?”

“I’ve never seen him working there before, and I'm sure I would have remembered him,” He says, ignoring Chris’s commentary and pushing his plate across the table. Chris makes a futile attempt to shove the pizza into his mouth gracefully but fails, oil dripping onto the filthy vinyl table. Viktor flicks him a packet of tissues. “I wonder if he always has that shift.”

Chris raises an eyebrow, chews, and swallows. “This isn’t like you.”

“How so?”

“Well,” Chris says, and gestures towards him, smirking. “You’re Viktor Nikiforov! Immune to schoolgirl crushes.”

Ever the voice of reason. It was true, he supposed, that his relationships never lasted longer than a month. It wasn’t intentional, it just ended up that way. But the night is still young, Viktor thought, “And so am I.” He added, out loud.

“What?”

“It’s not important.” Viktor was impatient. “Do you know him?”

Chris takes a swig of coke. “Depends. What’s his name?”

“Yuuri, it’s Japanese. His second name wasn’t on his badge. Or the staff list on the library website. I checked”

“Oh? Thorough, were you?" Chis says, amused, and tries to wink at Viktor but the effect is dampened somewhat by the streak of marinara sauce on his chin. "No need to fret, _pépite_ , I'll put out some feelers

“You're insufferable, Christophe. I love it.” The chair whined in agony as Viktor pushed away from the greasy table with its greasy food. “Let’s go somewhere.”

* * *

_Click. Click. Click._

Phichit groans against the desk. “Yuuri. What are you doing?”

There were a number of clicks in fast succession. “I think...I broke the computer.” Yuuri’s voice wavers, a bad sign.

He shifts his head in Yuuri’s direction, opening his eyes reluctantly. “What did you do?”

“The keys have all switched!” The rising panic in his voice is all-too-familiar; Phichit stands up, a weary warrior, and plods over to join his comrade in battle with the library’s ancient computer.

Yuuri is squinting at the screen, adorably confused in his overlarge jumper. “Look.” He presses shift, then the speech mark key, but a pound sign appears on the word document.

Phichit also squints. “Why’s it doing that?” 

“How should I know? Do you think we'll have to-” Yuuri takes a deep breath, "Should we contact Madame Pince?" 

Before Phichit can reply, the door swings open behind them, then swings shut with a muffled _thump._ He jerks upwards, a welcome already in his mouth, when he sees who it is, and nudges Yuuri. “Oh my, Yuuri. Look who it is.”

Yuuri pokes his head over the computer screen like a meerkat. “Oh, that’s Viktor. He was here the other day.”

“He was indeed," Phichit agrees, then raises his voice and waves, “Hey, Viktor! Are you good with computers?”

A few other patrons look up from their books in disapproval at the disruption, but Phichit doesn’t care. Phichit is a man on a mission.

Viktor steps past the footstools and plastic blocks in the kid’s section, looking slightly apprehensive, but he’s staring only at Yuuri, which is a good sign. “What do you need help with?”

“Oh, the keyboard is acting up, as per. Do you want to come around the desk to have a look?”

Viktor grins. “What an honour.”

Yuuri blushes.

Five minutes later, Phichit excuses himself to organise the shelves in the crime section, leaving Viktor leaning over Yuuri’s shoulder to examine the computer.

Phichit mentally pats himself on the back as he reaches the already perfectly ordered shelves. Really, Yuuri would thank him for this later.

* * *

There are two different ways in which companies can manufacture keyboards. Keyboards which are customised to the language of the user, or keyboards which can switch their functions regardless of the user's preferred language. If one fiddles with the settings of the latter type, the computer can automatically switch the functions of its keys. 

 It’s a very, very simple problem to fix. Viktor knows exactly what to do as soon as Yuuri finishes explaining his problem, his lower lip extended in a pout.

“Should we google it? I’m sure there’s an explanation on their user support centre.” Viktor suggests, helpfully.

Yuuri’s eyes light up. “Good idea.”

After half an hour of trying to solve the problem and Viktor pretending not to understand the terms ‘software’ and ‘hardware’, they successfully manage to revert the useless computer to its slightly less useless form.

“Thank you so much.” Yuuri breathes, the relief of avoiding a Madame Pince Encounter evident on his face.

"My pleasure." Viktor scratches his head and tries to think of something clever and compelling to say, not wanting Yuuri to return to the pile of work on his desk just yet. “Uh- Here, here lives you, yes?”

Outside, a bird squawks. "Well. Not here specifically," Yuuri grins, and it's next-door to a smirk, as he gestures vaguely at the surrounding bookshelves, "Although I do keep a spare toothbrush in the break room, you know, for those early morning shifts."

"Oh, you know what I mean!" Viktor can feel himself blushing (a rarity in itself) but presses on, "What course are you doing?"

“I was doing pure history, but I switched to a joint honours course with international relations in second year. Had to do a lot to catch up.” Yuuri glances up at him expectantly.

“BSc in Physics, I want to go into aerodynamics. Er, planes and stuff.”

Yuuri makes an impressed sort of noise, and begins returning his books to the rucksack under the desk. 

Viktor's heart sinks. “You’re leaving?”

As if to prove a point, the clock tower outside begins to chime. Yuuri laughs, thinking the same thing, and Viktor wonders if he could record it without Yuuri noticing. “Yep! My shift always ends at five.”

“Well, you must be hungry. Do you want to grab something for dinner?” Viktor offers, trying not to sound as if he were clutching at straws. He nods towards the shelves. “Your friend, too.”

He expected Yuuri to look at him blankly, or ask Viktor if he needed Yuuri’s student discount card in the cafeteria. What he didn’t expect was for Yuuri to stand up, alert, looking him directly in the eye.

“Can I choose the restaurant?”

* * *

Phichit supposed, as he slurped his ramen, that this was the best outcome he could possibly hope for. He wipes his mouth on a napkin.

Besides him, Yuuri is eating with fervour, demolishing noodles and dainty little dumplings.

Across the table, Viktor is watching this with an expression not dissimilar to the one worn by children in those adverts when their parents reveal they’re all going on a trip to Disneyland instead of school.

Maybe this was going to be easier than he thought.

* * *

One of the first of Yuuri’s idiosyncrasies that Viktor discovers is that he’s obsessed with his work. He’d learnt it was pointless to try and arrive before Yuuri’s shift ended, as he'd inevitably be at the help desk, poring over heavy books, scratching out immaculate notes onto flashcards or sub-sectioned notebooks.

Sometimes Viktor would wander around the library, picking a book here and a magazine there, just to have an excuse to talk to him.

“I’d like to check this one out, please.”

Yuuri reluctantly tears his eyes away from the source he was analysing. " _Sewing Through the Ages_?”

(Viktor hadn’t read the title.)

He nods, trying to keep his expression neutral. “A classic.”

Yuuri raises his eyebrow, but takes the book regardless, neatly scanning it and stamping its due date on the checkout card.

Then Viktor has an idea. “Hey,” He takes the book from Yuuri, staring into his eyes, “Do you want to study together sometime?”

“Oh, but- well, we’re not doing the same courses. Wouldn’t that be…” Yuuri flounders, looking for a word. “Impractical?”

“Not at all,” Viktor insists, eyes wide, the picture of goodwill and innocence, “I read an article on it. People who are working around other people are more likely to be productive.” It wasn’t like Yuuri had any problems being productive on his own. But still.

"Well, if you say so," Yuuri says, convinced, before turning back to his work. “How about this Friday? I have a research project due next week on Cold War relations in Asia."

Viktor practically skips back towards the library café.

* * *

Yuuri was leaning over a stack of paper again, several creases in his forehead (Viktor was considering sending him articles on the importance of wrinkle prevention) but on this occasion, it wasn’t a problem; the plush chair Yuuri was sitting in was Viktor’s, and the desk he was leaning on was Viktor’s expensive Muji workspace affair.

It’s a Friday, which means neither Viktor nor Yuuri have any lectures or seminars, and personal study at Viktor’s apartment had become routine. Every Friday morning, Viktor would meet Yuuri at a café just outside the campus; Yuuri would have a panini - possibly two - and Viktor would pick at a blueberry muffin before ordering a coffee, possibly two. Then they’d walk back to Viktor’s flat, talking about nothing in particular, before (and this was the less fun part) working or researching.

Viktor had noticed Yuuri’s energy would start to ebb after a few hours of frantic typing or scribbling notes. Whenever this happened, he’d fetch some snacks (Yuuri’s favourites were salt and vinegar crisps or almonds) and persuade Yuuri to go on a walk with him and Makkachin. Nine out of ten times, Yuuri would agree. Makkachin’s begging was impossible to resist, after all.

But on rare, wonderful occasions, Yuuri would get bored. Today was one of those days.

He leans back against a cushion that Viktor had helpfully provided, dislodging his glasses as he rubbed his eyes. "This is hopeless," he moans, giving the evil eye to a particularly nasty essay sat on the desk in front of him. "I can't concentrate. Do you want to do something?”

Viktor is suddenly overly conscious of his flat’s lack of entertainment. His apartment back in Russia boasted a well-stocked games room, fully kitted out with the latest gaming equipment and technology, but when he'd moved to England he hadn't bothered bringing anything. After all, it was only ever one flight away.  “We could go for a walk?” He suggests, lamely.

Yuuri pulls a face at the notion of unnecessary exercise. “Can't we just watch a film, or something?”

“A film.” Viktor nods. That he could do. “A film is good.”

Ten minutes later, Viktor nearly has a heart attack when he returns from the bathroom to find Katsuki Yuuri curled up on his cream sofa, Makkachin lolling in his lap.

“Did you choose one?” He sits down, on the opposite side of the sofa.

Yuuri nods shyly, pointing to the DVD on the coffee table. “Is this one okay?"

 _"Amelie?"_ It’s one of my favourites.” He tells Yuuri, picking up the remote, and it’s true. He is grateful that Yuuri did not choose one from the stack of choice slasher movies lent to him by Chris; he'd much rather watch a pretty French girl swanning around Paris than more inventive disembowelment techniques.  

“I love the songs.”

 “Ah,” Viktor smiles and presses play. The sound of the accordion strikes through the otherwise quiet apartment, “Can you sing any of it?”

“Wait and see.”

An hour later, Yuuri sings softly along with the lead actress, and Viktor leans in to listen. It’s adorable, really: his voice lilts over the French syllables uncertainly, but with so much sincerity that Viktor believes he rivals the original.

“Your pronunciation is terrible.” He says, grinning at Yuuri, who snorts, shoving at his chest.

“I’d like to see you do better!” Yuuri’s eyebrows are raised, a challenge evident in his flushed cheeks.

This victorious expression morphs into one of shock when Viktor begins to recite the lyrics in perfect French.

“I didn’t know you spoke French!”

Viktor blinks at him, innocently. “ _Tu ne savais pas_?”

“Stop.”

“ _Je ne te comprends pas, mais t'es mignon. Tu peux parler en français? Non?”_

“ _Watashi wa shuppatsu shimasu_.”

Leaning back, Viktor reaches up to brush a few strands of hair out of Yuuri’s eyes. “Oh. _Touché_.”

* * *

On Saturday evening, Chris, ever the informant, comes over with tidings of ‘important news.' This weeks highlights included the expulsion of two Professors caught 'behaving inappropriately' in one of the science labs (" _Gross_ ," Viktor says softly, "Think of the chemicals"), as well as the news that a delegation of health inspectors had declared the university cafeteria's produce 'unfit for human consumption.'

It’s not until Chris is about to leave that Viktor remembers something. He returns his phone to his pocket, watching Chris contemplatively.

“What?” Chris, having difficulty lacing up his shoes after three _Cuba Libres,_ leans on one of Viktor's expensive vases for support.

“You were wrong, you know. About Yuuri.”

Chris straightens up, looking perplexed. “What did I say?”

“You said people find him standoffish and rude. But he’s not like that at all.”

The stars are bright in the sky as Chris laughs knowingly, wagging his finger, "You of all people should know better than to take that sort of gossip seriously. Besides, what does it matter now?" He waves one last time before disappearing into the city outside.

* * *

Phichit didn’t often manage to drag Yuuri out to parties or clubs, and maybe this was a good thing, as Yuuri was someone who could go from zero to a hundred within half an hour. And vice versa.

“Phichit.” Yuuri sighs against his shoulder, giggling quietly. “Look at _Viktor_.” His glasses are tucked safely in Phichit’s pocket, a fact Yuuri would be grateful for come morning.

“Don’t worry,” Phichit takes a large gulp of whatever is in his spindly cocktail glass. It’s smooth as it slides down his throat, snaking a hot trail down to his stomach. “I’m watching.”

There were generally two types of dancers at clubs, Phichit had come to observe since university . There were the ones who could only really get comfortable on the dance floor after a few drinks, and then there were those who looked amazing both before _and_ after their blood-alcohol percentage had reached double digits. Viktor Nikiforov, predictably, belonged to the latter group.

This gives Phichit another amazing idea. He spins round on his barstool, dislodging Yuuri in the process, who drops the cherry he'd been trying to fish out of his drink, and shoots Phichit an annoyed look. 

“Excuse me!” Phichit beckons towards the bartender, wearing his most winning smile. “Could you do me a favour?”

* * *

Viktor wouldn’t call himself a jealous person.

Whenever he was beaten in an exam, or Chris broke one of his records, he’d shrug it off with a smile.

Viktor wouldn’t call himself a jealous person – in most circumstances.

He's walking back to the bar, an obnoxious EDM track pulsing in his ears and making him dizzy, when he notices Yuuri engrossed in an in-depth conversation with the girl behind the bar.

She is, admittedly, very pretty. She has those doe eyes that men go wild for, a sugary smile, girlish features which don't quite match the row of piercings lining the shell of her ear.

Viktor reaches Phichit and leans over him for his glass, “Does Yuuri know her?” he says, nodding in the direction of the pair.

At that moment, Yuuri says something, and she giggles, pressing a hand over her mouth. She replies, quirking a perfect eyebrow, and then Yuuri's laughing too.

“What?” Phichit follows his gaze, cocking his head in confusion when he sees the spectacle. “I don’t think so. It’s unusual for Yuuri to start a conversation with a stranger, though.” He traces the rim of his glass, innocently.

Viktor hums, checking his phone. It’s nearly midnight. He scrolls through his messages, regaining a little of his sobriety, and his eyes slide upwards just in time to see the bartender reach out and brush delicate fingers through Yuuri’s hair. It’s nearly long enough to be put in a ponytail.

Something deep inside him stirs, angrily, and before he can run a mental risk assessment on his friendship with Yuuri, he hops off of the stool and edges his way through the throng to the other end of the bar. Yuuri doesn't notice him.

“Yuuri.” He taps him on the shoulder, briskly.

The man jumps, his hand flying out and grasping Viktor’s arm to steady himself. Yuuri’s eyes are big and soft as they blink at him, slowly. “Viktor? Weren't you dancing?”

“Only if I can dance with you.”

Yuuri flushes bubblegum pink. His hand slides down Viktor’s arm, tracing his wrist, until Viktor laces their fingers together. It’s very warm. “Okay.”

As he leads Yuuri to the dance floor, he doesn’t see Phichit punch the air.

* * *

He was truly a mastermind, Phichit thinks to himself, and wonders briefly why he's wasting good money on a biology degree when clearly he should just set up a matchmaking service. The bartender grins at him as soon as Viktor (finally, _finally_ ) gets his act together and whisks Yuuri away, like a drunk, unromantic Prince Charming. Phichit hands her a fiver, giving her the thumbs up, before returning to his daydream. Maybe he could ask someone from the graphic design course to make him business cards. 

Behind the bar, the girl polishes the same glass for over five minutes, a glazed look in her eyes as she stares at Yuuri.

“You know,” She starts, handing Phichit the empty glass. He takes it, perplexed, then hands it back to her. She doesn’t even blink. “He’s surprisingly charming. Your supposedly ‘too shy even to initiate a conversation with a cat’ friend.”

Phichit lets out a long, weary sigh. “Oh, believe me. I know.”

There’s a loud cheer from the crowd as Viktor hoists Yuuri into the air, spinning him around with apparent ease. Yuuri laughs, writhing until Viktor has to relinquish his hold, and Yuuri collapses against his chest.

Phichit orders another drink. He’ll be rewarded in Heaven, he supposes.

* * *

“I’m never doing that ever again.” Yuuri states, voice wobbly, stubbornly refusing to look at the phone screen Viktor was waving in his face.

“But Yuuri, everyone _loved_ your dancing, especially me, and—”

Yuuri is as red as a tomato. Possibly redder. “Viktor!”

Phichit stamps and signs an ‘overdue’ notice for a copy of Tolstoy’s ‘Anna Karenina.’ “Don’t be mean to Yuuri, Viktor.” He takes another card from the box. “He means it when he says he’ll never go again.”

Yuuri buries his face in his hands. Viktor’s at his side in an instant, wrapping a comforting arm around his waist, whispering something in his ear until Yuuri starts laughing.

“Firstly you don’t work because you have nothing to distract you,” Phichit laments, pressing the stamp into fresh ink. “—And now you don’t work because you have too many distractions.”

 Scattered across the desk are chunks of Styrofoam and pages of instruction manuals. The old computer had, to nobody’s grief, wheezed its last breath on Monday. Its replacement, a newer and shinier model, stood proudly where its predecessor once sat.

Out with the old, and in with the new.

* * *

All in all, Phichit feels entirely justified in describing how 'without his interventions and mastery, these two would never even have gotten together’ during his Best Man’s speech at their wedding.

**Author's Note:**

> i listened to edith piaf's 'milord' and the whisper of the heart soundtrack the entire time i was writing this nonsense, so as a result there are elements of both mixed into this. (both are great.) confession: i nearly added the tag 'minor character death' for the library's poor computer. it led a good life.
> 
> i just wanted to write something lighthearted for valentines & viktuuri week, and this was the result aha
> 
> as a sidenote, i'd like to add that 'heartbreaker yuuri' was not my idea, some people on tumblr were talking about it and i was like you know what? this is real
> 
> please point out any typos/grammar/language errors <3  
> thank you for reading!!


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